Memories
by lumaluma
Summary: At the end of the Revolutionary War, our two main combatants do a bit of thinking on what led up to the war in the first place, and how it might have been different. Rated T for language and mildly suggestive themes.


_This is just a short little one-shot I wrote a while back, and waited until now to upload. Rated T for language. Short, sweet, kind of fluffy._

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It was a few months after the end of the war, and most everything on America's side of the Atlantic had sorted itself out. Everything, that is, but America himself. He was happy to be free, yes, but also very confused and a bit worried. Would he be able to take care of his people properly? Would England refuse to conduct trade with him, or to let him trade with any of the British colonies? What was he going to do, alone in that house, knowing no one was going to come back for him anymore?

America locked away the things that reminded him too much of England, the things that tore the still-healing wounds of battle back open. Not physical wounds, either, but the kind of wounds that took much longer to recover from, that hurt on a much deeper level. He hid all of his old toys, the things that brought back too many memories of his childhood, as well as all the things England had brought him over the years. It was all too sentimental, and it was still too soon.

He sighed, sitting on the front steps of his house, hoping to get away from it all if only for a little while. He had come across a trunk of England's clothes in one of the spare bedrooms, and for some reason it made him unable to breathe, like his breath stuck in his throat the moment he opened the trunk. He knew he had to get out of the house.

Everything had just happened so quickly, and his mind was still catching up with it all. It seemed like only yesterday he and England were having dinner in the dining room with relaxed conversation, and now England was all the way across the ocean, and he wouldn't be coming back. Not to see America, at least. His most recent letter had made it quite clear that he didn't intend to see America in person unless absolutely necessary, but that he would tolerate his presence at trade meetings and the like. America couldn't blame him for being bitter, either. This whole war had been his idea from the start, as a sort of rebellion against England, but he hadn't expected it to go this far. Now he was a nation, no longer just a colony. Now he was completely in charge of himself. Equal with England—unless you counted the entire British Empire as a part of him.

America sighed, pushing his hair out of his face. Maybe he would never be England's equal. Then he stood up suddenly, angrily. No. He would make it to that point someday, he was sure of it. He was still pretty young, after all, and with enough time, he could become stronger than England could ever hope to be. No matter how long it took, he would get there. He would prove he could be strong on his own.

America looked around him, tired of just sitting on the steps. The house was too empty, the garden was too tame. He needed to get away from there; he needed to get away from all of that, if only for a short time. At least the fields around his house were as wild as ever, always wide, open, and green. He walked down the stairs, looked back at the house, shrugged, and decided to go for a walk. No one was expecting him at home anyways. Not anymore.

He ran a hand through the grass as he walked, remembering how he would run around in these fields as a child and find all kinds of birds and mammals in the tall grass. Now he was too tall to see everything around him, but he could hear a tell-tale rustling in the grass that told him something was scurrying around nearby. He followed the ripples made by the wind in the tall grass, just wandering around aimlessly in the rolling hills. It felt nice to just relax and not think about anything, something he hadn't been able to do for quite a long time. He had just been so busy trying to get everything figured out. But now, there were no more meetings to sit through, no more speeches to listen to, and no more ceremonies to preside over. And no more of England's lessons to keep him trapped indoors when the weather was nice, either. Not anymore. He could do whatever he liked. Now _that_ was freedom.

America smiled to himself, plucking a blade of grass and spinning it around between his fingers. At least he could finally take charge of his life, even if it would be a bit lonely now. He glanced over his shoulder, spotting his house off in the distance. It looked so small and insignificant from where he was, even though it really wasn't all that far away. America shrugged, turning back around. He spotted a young tree, hardly more than a sapling, not too far off, and he recognized it with a jolt.

The last time he had seen this tree, over eight years ago, it had been just a spindly little stalk out in this field, and now it was growing tall and strong, its branches shadowing the grass around it enough for a small patch of shade-loving flowers to pop up underneath it. He recognized this place as the spot he would come with England when the older nation decided to teach him about nature. And when he was old enough, England changed it to the spot where they would eat lunch while he taught America horseback riding, archery, fencing, and other 'gentlemanly' pastimes. He sighed. So much for getting away from all the memories.

One memory in particular of this place stood out from all the rest, and it was something America desperately wanted to forget. This was the same place he had decided to forgo all formalities and just kiss England, after months of fruitless attempts to get his caretaker to see him as more than a child, as more than a little brother. He couldn't quite remember when that soft smile turned from just a friendly gesture of happiness to something that made him want to kiss England and hold him close and never let him go, but once he had realized what it was all about, he made it his mission to get England to look at him differently. He failed miserably.

And, full of frustration and pent-up longing, it was in this very spot that he had done something even he considered incredibly stupid in hindsight. America sat down on a tree stump, remembering what had happened that day.

They were just eating lunch by the little tree after exploring the fields on horseback, letting the horses graze nearby and rest for a little while. America took a drink of water and cast a glance over at England, and his heart ached. He looked so happy, his cheeks flushed with exertion and his hair just slightly windblown. America wanted to kiss him so, so badly, but he couldn't. Not yet. He had to know what England thought about him, about them. So he swallowed the lump in his throat and asked, rather nervously, "Hey, England?"

"Yes?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"Why, of course. Go right ahead."

"What exactly are we? I mean, what's our relationship like?"

England tilted his head slightly. "Well," he replied, "A rather mentor-apprentice kind of relationship, I suppose. Some call it brotherly, but I'm not sure if that's the proper term."

So he didn't see them as brothers after all. America nodded. "Okay, just curious."

"No problem." England brushed a lock of hair out of his eyes. "But why do you ask?"

"Uh…" America froze, completely unsure of what to say. When England looked at him expectantly, he struggled to come up with a somewhat coherent reply. "You see, I was wondering if… you know, we—um. Yeah."

England looked at him strangely. "Are you all right, America?"

"Yeah."

"You look a tad red. Are you sure you're not getting overheated?"

"I'm fine. I just…" he trailed off, not knowing what he was trying to say before he decided, what the hell. He grabbed England by the shoulders and pulled him into a kiss, his heart skipping a beat when he felt England's lips respond, pressing back against his own. He slid his hands into England's hair, a soft moan working its way out of his throat when England's tongue pressed against his lower lip, just barely slipping into his mouth.

England jumped suddenly, pulling America's hands out of his hair and yanking his face away. "America! What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?" He sounded angry and scared, and was looking at America with such an air of shock that the younger nation couldn't even really respond. His heart sunk.

"I thought we-"

"We? America, there is no 'we'. There is only you and me. You can't go around just kissing whoever you like, it's not-"

"Wait, what? What do you mean, whoever I like?"

"If you're trying to use me as some kind of experiment to learn about that… that kind of thing, I will not stand for it. You're far too young to realise how serious something like that is." England pushed him away. "This isn't a game, America."

"I _know _that," America protested, "I know what all this is, okay? I'm not a kid anymore, England. I know what I want." He reached for England's hand, and when his guardian snatched his hand away and glared at him reproachfully, America felt something in him snap. He had reached his tipping point. So he stood up, turning away so England couldn't see his face.

England sighed. "America, sit down. I know we've never talked about this kind of thing, and I know that's entirely my fault, but I can-"

"No." He turned back around, looking England in the eyes. "I don't want to sit around and talk, okay?"

England crossed his arms. "Well, I'm afraid that's all I can do for you. You're still so young, you _can't_ understand."

America felt his eyes well up with angry tears. "Fine!" he shouted, "If that's how it is, fine!"

"America, stop yelling. Calm down. You don't-"

"England, I know what's going on! I've loved you for years, okay? _Years!_ You think I'm still a kid, that I'm 'too young' to understand? You know what, _you're _the one who doesn't understand!" he wiped his eyes angrily, trying not to cry. "I've put up with your shit forever because I thought… I thought…"

England looked worried and confused. "America, I-"

"Shut up! You never cared enough to pay attention, that's all! All you care about is yourself and your stupid wealth as a stupid empire! Well, _fuck you_." America snarled it, spinning around on his heel and marching off, hearing England calling after him but refusing to turn around.

He practically ran back to the house, slamming the door behind him and running straight to his room to lock himself in, slumping against the door and letting himself cry. It hurt, to have England reject him in such a way, especially after that kiss. That hadn't been an accident on England's part, he was sure of it, but he knew he'd never get the older nation to admit to it. He placed a couple fingers against his lips gently, and he swore he could almost feel the touch of England's lips still.

It wasn't long after he locked himself in his room that he heard the front door open and swing shut again. "America? Are you in here?" He didn't reply, hoping England would just leave him alone. America couldn't bear to see his face, not then. Luckily, England just sighed. "I suppose I should start on dinner. He'll come home eventually."

America breathed a small sigh of relief, moving away from his door to curl up on his bed, feeling every bit the lovesick adolescent he was. And, for once, it seemed like the kind of sickness England couldn't – or wouldn't – heal. America sighed, pulling a pillow to his chest and curling himself up around it. He lay there, just staring out the window until he started to drift off, fading in and out of sleep.

When he woke up, he heard England walking around the house, and for some reason it made him bristle with an anger he had never felt before. What was he doing, walking around like he owned the place? America was about to get up and tell England to fuck off when the door knob to his room suddenly turned. America lay back down, curling back around his pillow, squeezing his eyes shut and hoping England wouldn't unlock the door.

He heard England sigh. "Why he bothers locking up his room when he isn't home is beyond me. It's not like he has anything to hide." England paused. "Unless… well, I'd better check." America heard a quiet 'click' and the door swung open. England didn't see him at first, but when he did notice America, he jumped. "Ah, America. You're here after all."

America didn't trust his voice not to break when he spoke, so he just stared at England blankly.

England cleared his throat. "I was checking the rooms to see if you were home. Dinner's ready." America still didn't reply, and England sighed. "All right then. I'll leave it out for you if you want any."

America looked away, not wanting to see him. It was still too soon. Rejection stung, and though he knew it was childish to act in such a way, he couldn't help it. It just didn't seem _fair,_ that England could boss him around without giving anything in return, only ever taking. America rolled his eyes. Being a colony sucked. He was just a valuable piece of land to England, nothing more. And all these years he'd been fooling himself into thinking that England actually cared about him, that he could ever love him.

That thought weighed heavily on his mind as he walked down the hall to the dining room, deciding that starving himself wouldn't do anything. When he sat down across from England at the table, he didn't even bother looking the older nation in the eye, just helping himself to dinner. England didn't break the tense silence between them either, but occasionally glanced at America, some unreadable emotion in his eyes.

They didn't speak much the next day, or the day after that. America didn't think there was much of anything to talk about, and he avoided England as much as he could. He had said what he felt, after all, and it was up to England to come find him if he wanted to sit around and chat.

Tense silences became angry silences, angry silences turned into snippy comments, and those turned into full-blown fights. It was like a rift had opened between the two of them that day in the field, from the moment England had pushed America away. And it wasn't long after the real fights started that America found himself on the battlefield, fighting against the one person he thought he truly trusted and loved. It wasn't just out of anger that he fought, however, and it wasn't merely because he wanted to prove to England that he wasn't a child. It wasn't entirely for the well-being of his people, either, though he tried to tell himself that was the only reason he was fighting England. But deep down he knew that it was for all of those things.

It had hurt, to cast England away like that, but America decided it was for the best. England had hurt him, after all, and he needed some way to fight against the pain. He couldn't just lie there and take it, not when he had been treated like such an idiot, like he was nothing more than a child. Still, America wasn't entirely sure if he had done the right thing.

He sighed, still sitting on that tree stump all on his own in that field, pushing his hair out of his eyes. "I'm such an idiot. If I had actually taken the time to think a little more, none of this would've happened."

America was glad to be independent, there was no doubt about that in his mind, but it was all so overwhelming, and he wished he had someone to help him through it all, but he didn't. In fact, he had broken ties with the one person who might've been able to help him. If only, he thought to himself, if only he had been less stupid, if only he hadn't just acted on impulse, then maybe things would've been all right.

But now he was stuck with the memories and the knowledge of what he had done, with no way of ever locking them away permanently. It hurt, knowing that England probably hated him for everything that had happened, and it hurt even more to know that he probably could've avoided all this pain, if only he had been thinking a little more.

Maybe England was right after all; maybe he really was still too young.

…

Half a world away, England was at his country home, trying to put it all behind him. He didn't want to think about anything that had happened, and he certainly didn't want to talk about it. That was why he had holed himself up in this house in the countryside, where he could only be reached by letters.

The peace and quiet was comforting, even if he was left alone with his thoughts. Thoughts he wanted to avoid but that he couldn't push out of his mind. Like why he had allowed himself to lose to America, why he felt the need to get away from everyone, why he was so angry with himself. The house slowly filled with those buzzing, restless thoughts and questions, and he decided to get out of there, if only for a little while.

If he couldn't find solace in the untamed haven of nature, after all, then where could he find it? England sighed, getting his coat and stepping out into the cool, damp air of the great outdoors. It had been raining earlier, but seemed to have stopped. A fine layer of droplets still covered everything with a dewy shine, even in the faint sunlight that shone through the clouds.

England was tired of hiding in the house, and the fresh air seemed to do wonders on his clouded, fogged mind. He was so tired, so stressed, and the cool, clean air helped to clear his mind and leave him feeling refreshed. The troublesome thoughts floating in his head were pushed away, and he allowed himself to smile. He had been right about getting out of the house. Being cooped up for so long had started to drive him nuts, and now he was free to stroll around the countryside without a care in the world.

Now, that much wasn't quite true—he still had to worry about Canada's safety (America wouldn't dare attack him out of anger for taking England's side in the war, would he?), the economy (war was expensive), anyone potentially looking to start _another_ war… but England shrugged those thoughts off. He could worry about all of that later.

He was out to get some rest from the busy world around him, where he felt like he was struggling to keep up with everything that happened around him. Things seemed to happen so quickly… one moment, he was singing America to sleep during a thunderstorm, the next he was facing the same boy on the battlefield. But America wasn't a boy anymore, was he? He had grown into a fine young man. And inexperienced and naïve young man, yes, but he was still old enough to understand some of the more complex things in life. Including, apparently, love.

England sighed, shaking his hair out of his face. He wasn't ready to think about that just yet. It was still too soon, the wounds were too fresh. But it wasn't just the sting of humiliation from his loss to America that hurt him. No, there was something else there, a cold, empty kind of pain that seemed to squeeze at his heart, a kind of pain he had never felt before.

He felt a raindrop land on his shoulder and he looked up at the sky, only to receive a droplet of water on his lips. That startled him slightly, bringing back memories of what had happened only a few years ago, back before the war began. As the rain picked up again, England stood there, recalling what had happened with America just before the younger nation decided to fight for his independence.

It made him wince, made the pain in his chest grow and blossom into something uncontrollable. He remembered the hurt and anger on America's face when he was rejected, remembered how it made him want to take back what he said, even though he couldn't. He had been right, hadn't he? America had been too young… hadn't he? England closed his eyes, sighing.

No. He hadn't been too young. But England had refused to think about America like that, simply because something inside him felt uneasy about the morality of such attraction to his young charge.

America had been like his son, like his brother, and it just seemed almost _wrong_ to think about him in such a way. England couldn't keep his instincts hidden away forever, though, and when America had kissed him, he couldn't help himself. He had barely held himself back from just pinning America to the ground and ravishing him, but when he realised that was exactly what he was about to do, some stupidly logical part of his brain kicked in and he pulled away, refusing to acknowledge either America's attraction to him or his own attraction to the younger man.

Of course, that was what had caused this whole mess. He had been thinking too much about things, trying too hard to come up with reasons to keep his hands off his colony, and he had started to believe them, if only a little bit. And he had only ended up hurting them both. He remembered how America had turned away to hide his tears, and he remembered how, at the end of the war, he had tried to hide his own tears. He hadn't known exactly why he was crying then, but he did now. It was heartbreak. He had been harboring a secret hope that America would come back to him, and when that was crushed, he felt somehow devastated.

It had been raining that day, hadn't it? England sighed, letting the rain wash over him. There weren't any tears in his eyes, but the water running down his face would have washed them away anyways. He shook his head, murmuring, "How could I be so stupid? If I hadn't been thinking so much, none of this would've happened."

England was angry with himself more than anyone else, simply for holding back what he had felt. And now it was too late. Even if America could forgive him someday, things would never be the same. He couldn't take back what he said, not now. It was far too late for that. _Years_ too late. And while that didn't seem like much to him, to a young country like America, it seemed like a long time. He just hoped the younger could find it in his heart to give him a second chance, no matter how long it took them to get there. However long it took for the memories to hurt less.

…

The next time they actually saw each other in person was quite a few years later, and by then England had decided he could handle it. He was a mature adult, after all, and enough time had passed for the wounds of war to heal again, despite the short war he and Canada had fought against America recently, where they were victorious. So while he felt bitter about what had happened, he knew he would be strong enough to make it through a few meetings without lashing out at America.

America, for his part, was nervous about the whole thing. He wasn't entirely sure if he could keep control of himself, but he had told his president that he'd be all right. But he would have to wait and see how England acted before doing anything. So when they met, America's president shaking hands with England's ambassador, the two nations shook hands briefly and acknowledged each other with curt nods. Neither of them was entirely sure what these meetings were about, but they had both been asked to attend.

When they had been ushered into a meeting room and seated around a round table, tea poured for each of them, the talks began. Apparently, they were meeting to discuss trade as well as the state of things on either side of the Atlantic. With France in a state of disaster after the Napoleonic wars, things in Europe were rather jumbled up, and England admitted as much. He seemed completely and utterly bored as he said it, and America felt himself bristle.

"Well," he replied, "Maybe it's a good thing that people are getting rid of their corrupt, tyrannical leaders." England glared at him, and he held firm, glaring right back. The president cleared his throat, and America relaxed. He had promised to keep his cool, after all. England's representative looked between the two of them and raised an eyebrow, obviously sensing the tension.

America's president sighed. "America, if you don't mind, the ambassador and I have some things to discuss in private. We'd like you and England to remain here while we're gone, all right?"

America shrugged. "Fine with me."

England waved the two men off. "Go right ahead." When the doors closed, leaving them alone in the room, England crossed his legs and looked out a window. He didn't have anything to say, not really.

America started drumming his fingers on the table out of boredom, and he smirked when England rolled his eyes. He would do that during lessons when he was bored, and England used to whap him on the back of the hand with whatever he had handy. It looked like he wouldn't be doing that anymore. After a couple minutes, England glared at him, and he glared right back. He wasn't going to show any weakness in front of England, especially not now. He didn't need any reason to doubt America's strength as an independent nation.

But suddenly, something in England's gaze softened, and he wasn't glaring anymore. No, he was just sitting there, a worried crease in his brow and a hint of some emotion in his eyes. It couldn't be sadness, though, could it? What was he worried about, anyways?

England looked away, staring down at the table, trying not to show any unnecessary emotion. America didn't need to know that England still worried about him, whether he'd turn out all right in the end, whether he could manage everything on his own.

America dropped his own gaze, staring into his cup of tea. He felt like he should say something, but he didn't know what. So he settled for the truth. "Hey, England?" The older nation looked up from the table, and America continued, "You know, I miss you."

England nodded. "I… I miss you too." It was true. As much as he wished it wasn't, it was true. He cleared his throat. "Er… how have you been?"

"I've been… fine."

"I see. Me too." They sat there in silence, unsure of what to do, until England looked America in the eyes and felt something in him give.

He stood up, walking over to America and cupping the younger nation's face in his hands. America blinked at him wide-eyed for a couple seconds until England leaned in to kiss him. He felt America stiffen for a moment before relaxing and tilting his head to the side a bit, pressing his lips back against England's. England parted his lips just barely, not even pressing his tongue forward into America's mouth. Just slowly, gently moving their lips together as tenderly as he could manage.

When England went to pull away, America leaned forward, keeping their lips connected for as long as he possibly could. After they broke apart, England stroked America's cheek softly, looking him in the eyes. "I love you," he murmured, "and I'm sorry."

America nodded. "You took the words right out of my mouth."

England smiled, that smile that America had missed and longed for. "A kiss can do that from time to time." He stepped back, only to have America stand up and grab his hand.

"England, I… what happened that day in the field… it was my fault."

England shook his head. "No, it was my fault."

"But if I had been thinking a little more-"

"And if I had been thinking a little less, things might have been different." England sighed. "But there's no rewriting the past."

America nodded and looked away, blushing a bit. "So, uh…" he squeezed England's hand. "What does this mean for us?"

"There will be an 'us,' I can promise you that much. But right now…"

"It's still too soon. I know what you mean."

England was surprised by America's response, how mature he sounded just then. "Yes, that's exactly it. America, you… you've changed."

"Is that good?"

He sounded worried, and England had to smile. "Yes, that's good. It's very good. You've grown up." America smiled, looking away, and England placed a hand on his shoulder. "I don't know how long it will take before there can be an 'us,' America."

"That's okay. I can wait. I'll compromise that much." He didn't sound all that put out, which relieved England. In truth, America was still just glad that England didn't hate him like he had feared. He still felt the sting of the war when he looked England in the eyes, and he knew he wasn't ready yet either. But he would be happy to wait, knowing that England wouldn't reject him anymore.

When the president came back into the room, he nodded at America, not knowing what had happened but knowing that something had changed. America smiled at him, and the meeting reconvened, the atmosphere now much less tense and angry.

That evening, when America returned to his home, he was happy to see the house despite its emptiness. It was still full of memories, yes, but that didn't hurt so much anymore. No, and it was a good kind of pain, the kind that reminded him that the ones you love the most can also be the ones who hurt you the most. The memories would never go away, but America decided that might be a good thing. He still had a lot to learn, after all, and maybe these was just another lesson England had for him—love, no matter what kind of love it is, hurts.

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_Thanks for reading! Drop a review if you like, let me know what you thought!_


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